Alone
by rlu1
Summary: It's Christmas time at 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock and John have been fighting quite a bit lately. Will the consulting detective finally push his flatmate over the edge? (Eventual Johnlock)
1. Carol of the Bells

_**Disclaimer for entire story: This is a work of Fanfiction using characters from the world of BBC's Sherlock. I do not own this world or its characters. Rather, they are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. This story is for entertainment purposes only.**_

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It was Christmas yet the noises that emitted from 221B Baker Street were anything but festive. There was an absence of Christmas carols, mulled wine, and fruit cake; instead, there was an abundance of curses, insults, crashing, and banging.

John Watson, doctor and former military man, was throwing pillows, shoes, books, and anything else he could get his hands on at the curly brunette head of his flatmate, one Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. The latter was sprawled out on the couch, reading the newspaper and seemingly oblivious to his flatmate's outrage.

"You are unbelievable. Bloody unbelievable. That is the last time I let you make me a drink. And here I thought you were being nice, for once. But no, it's all just for a bloody experiment. And on Christmas Eve of all days!" the doctor was screaming.

Sherlock's gaze lifted from his newspaper for a fraction of a second. "Oh, don't be so sentimental, John. Christmas is a ridiculous holiday. Where do I even begin? People are encouraged to spend exorbitant amounts of money in the idiotic belief that material goods will buy them love and happiness. Children are told that reindeers can fly and that a man who never dies travels through the air to every single house in the entire world within a matter of hours. And all to celebrate the birth of a fiction. There is no higher being. There is no heaven. When people die, they are either buried in the ground or their remains are burned. So you see? Christmas is absurd." Sherlock scowled for a second before continuing on. "Besides, it was not just some bloody experiment, John. It helped us capture a serial killer." This was said in a very matter-of-fact tone. "Each of the victims was physically capable: one professional athlete, one firefighter, and one construction worker. That means strong, muscular, and more than able to put up a fight if necessary. However, a quick look at the bodies showed that there was no struggle when they were murdered. And yet, they were not shot. No, they were physically attacked. So why no struggle? Where was the connection? At each crime scene, there was a half empty glass of tea. Conclusion. The killer put something in their morning cups of tea to render them physically weak and vulnerable. It was quite clear, but I had to make sure that I was correct." And then the detective's blue eyes were once again immersed in his reading.

"So yesterday morning you drugged my tea!" John said, face red with irritation.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, eyes still glued to his paper. "And, of course, my thoughts were correct and from there it was quite easy to find our murderer. Who was been all over the London news lately? One surgeon, Dr. William Scottsden. Why has he been in the papers? Because of his discovery of a drug that can induce temporary paralysis. Why is this important? Because he believes that inducing temporary paralysis may be beneficial in performing certain surgeries. Dr. Scottsden is the murderer. Case closed." Then Sherlock's voice became annoyed. "You were there for the entire case, John, why are you making me repeat things you should already know?"

But Sherlock's irritation soon turned to surprise when John tore the newspaper out of the detective's hand and pinned the dark-haired man down on the couch. "YOU DRUGGED ME WITH SOMETHING THAT MADE ME COMPLETELY HELPLESS, YOU GIANT GIT! COMPLETELY HELPLESS! I WAS LYING ON THE BLOODY FLOOR UNABLE TO MOVE FOR TWO WHOLE HOURS! DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING TO YOU? SOMEONE COULD HAVE BROKEN IN AND I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ABLE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME, SHERLOCK? HOW COULD YOU? WOULD YOU EVEN CARE IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO ME? OR ARE YOU SO HEARTLESS THAT I AM NOTHING MORE THAN A PIECE IN YOUR GAME?"

Sherlock's face had been utterly calm for the majority of John's tirade but the detective's eyes flashed an intense blue at John's last words. John immediately shut his mouth, slightly embarrassed by his outburst, running a shaky hand through his dusty blonde hair. And that was when the doctor became achingly aware of the fact that he and his flatmate were mere inches apart. He could feel Sherlock's small, steady breaths against his face; could see the flecks of gold and green within the blue orbs of Sherlock's eyes; noticed when Sherlock's gaze travelled down to John's lips for a millisecond. That's when John's ears began to burn red and he cleared his throat as he climbed off of the detective's slender form.

There was another uneasy moment of silence before Sherlock spoke. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I was here the entire time. I wouldn't have let anyone hurt you." Sherlock's voice was deep and thoughtful, and John could feel the detective's intense gaze still on him.

"Right. Except for you, Sherlock, _you_ don't seem to have a problem with hurting me," John muttered, covering the space between the couch and the stairs in mere seconds. His ears continued to burn as he went up the stairs and into his room.

John would have spent the rest of the day sulking. But soon, the sound of violin strings danced up the stairs and greeted him in a soothing embrace. As he listened, he could not help but smile. He moved to his bedroom window and turned his Christmas lights on, allowing the colours of the lights to blend with the music in a comfortable warmth.

Sherlock was playing _Carol of the Bells_.

_Carol of the Bells_ was John's favourite Christmas song.

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**_Did you know that every time you review this piece, Benedict Cumberbatch smiles? Well, he does...it's true...so, you know, you should review. :)_**

**_Thanks for reading! Will have an update to you soon. _**


	2. From Red Jumpers to Rain

_**Wow, thank you so very much for the wonderful reviews so far. You are too kind and you make my day. :)**_

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After _Carol of the Bells_, Sherlock played _Deck the Halls, Ding Dong Merrily on High_, and _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ and they were all very lovely indeed. So lovely, in fact, that John was just about ready to forgive Sherlock for drugging his tea. But the doctor's good cheer was destroyed the minute he walked down the stairs and entered the living room to the sight of Sherlock wrapping a bright red jumper around a long, pale, bleeding arm.

"Sherlock!" John cried. "That's mine!"

"Hmm?" Sherlock muttered, preoccupied with his injured limb.

"That's my special Christmas jumper…the one my mum knitted for me," John said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock was silent as he continued to fuss with his arm.

John took a deep breath, feeling his blood begin to boil. "Sherlock - what are you doing?"

"Isn't it perfectly clear?" the detective asked, voice seeped with impatience.

John's eyes bulged.

Sherlock sighed, curls bouncing as he flashed his flatmate a scowl. "I accidentally cut myself and needed to stop the bleeding."

"So you used my jumper to do that?"

"Obviously."

"YOU COULDN'T HAVE USED TOILET PAPER?!" The veins in John's neck felt about ready to explode. He grabbed his flatmate by the shoulders and practically shook him, but he froze as he felt Sherlock's solid muscles in his hands. Why had he never realized how sturdy the detective was before?

There was a slight smirk on Sherlock's face and his blue-green eyes were practically glowing. After what felt like hours, he shimmied himself out of John's grasp and said rather nonchalantly, "Bathroom's too far. Your jumper was on the couch." Then, in a flash of long limbs and dancing hair, he was off to the kitchen.

For a second, the doctor in John thought about chasing after the detective to see if his arm was badly wounded; but when he heard Sherlock call from the kitchen, "The colour doesn't suit you anyway," the doctor reached for his coat instead, silently praying that there would be a bar open at this time of night on Christmas.

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Christmas was the holiday that John looked forward to above all holidays. Sherlock had ruined Christmas. John wanted to make this perfectly clear to the detective and, so, he gave the dark-haired man a week-long silent treatment - but, to the doctor's dismay, his flatmate was far too busy with experiments to notice. Sherlock's latest tests involved rummaging through the fridge to grab whatever food was in sight, throwing said food under his microscope, capturing flies he found resting on the wall, and placing the poor creatures in a glass jar with a moulding piece of something or other. One night, John came home to find Sherlock pacing back and forth with the jar of flies in hand, lost in thought and muttering under his breath, "What foods produce endorphins and, if one enjoys these foods but does not enjoy their chemical effects, how can one prevent the body from reacting to these endorphins upon consumption? If I can answer that question, perhaps I can discover how to prevent the body from reacting to endorphins in any circumstance, even circumstances where food does not play a role." But other than this one frantic monologue, the detective spent the week in silence and ignored the doctor perhaps more effectively than the doctor ignored him.

Thus, when Sherlock came to John one evening blubbering excitedly about a new case, John felt absolutely no sense of guilt in saying that he would not be joining this time. And when the detective furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and asked why in the world not, John triumphantly announced that he had a date planned with a lady he'd just met named Gina. The doctor felt all the more giddy when he saw his flatmate's eyes briefly flash emerald green at the news.

The unfortunate moment happened when Sherlock was waltzing out the door for the crime scene and Gina was arriving in a loose black dress. John rushed out of his room in a fever when he heard her voice: "Oh, hello there. I'm Gina. You must be Sherlock. John tells me you're brilliant. Went so far as to say you could read my life story just by looking at my -"

John reached the top of the stairs as Sherlock interrupted her. "You are a former ballet dancer judging by the way you carry yourself. Shoulders back, abdominals engaged, feet slightly turned out when you walk. You had to stop dancing because you sustained a hip injury. Obviously a hip injury from the way your left leg slightly catches when you walk and the fact that your legs are the same length but your left hip bone is the slightest bit higher than your right one. You have gained weight since you stopped dancing. You still have the long, lean muscles of a ballet dancer but there is a distinct layer of flesh that has formed over these muscles. And you are trying to hide your weight gain by wearing a loose-fitting dress. However, the sleeves of your dress are quite short and, therefore, reveal the large size of your arms. Next time, you would be far better off wearing long-sleeves. Good day." Sherlock smirked and made to move past the poor young lady but abruptly paused in the doorway, his lips twitching before he added, "Oh, and I know that John says he is taking you to his favourite restaurant in town, but it's not really his favourite one, it's his _second_ favourite. He never takes his dates to his favourite spot because that is reserved for him and _me__._ It's where we go after we have successfully solved a case together. Nice to meet you. Good bye."

By now, John was at the door. He opened his mouth to curse at Sherlock but the detective was already across the street, coat billowing behind him as he hurried into the rain. Gina was stock still for a moment, eyes wide and skin blanched, before she abruptly turned and ran away too.

John stayed in the doorway for hours, watching the rain twist and tumble in an agonized tango with the cold, hard pavement.


	3. The Smile on the Wall

_**You are all so, so amazing. Truly. Thank you for your support. Your reviews really do make my day! :)**_

_**Well, now, here things get pretty angsty. You've been warned.**_

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Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street just after midnight, face glowing with the excitement of having solved a particularly fascinating case. He hoped his flatmate was home from the date with what's-her-face (_Gina, was it? No matter. It's not important…_). In all honesty, he couldn't wait to tell John about this latest crime, hopefully over some warm food. Now that the case was solved, the detective was beginning to succumb to a sharp fatigue caused by the fact that he hadn't eaten since…well, he couldn't actually recall when his last bit of food had been.

The doctor liked danger and intrigue almost as much as Sherlock did, and Sherlock was sure that his flatmate would find this particular case succulent. It involved the double homicide of two female opera singers in which each dropped dead on stage with sheet music from Verdi's _Otello _mysteriously stuffed down her throat. It had been brilliant….exhilarating and _enticingly_ brilliant. The artistic director of the company, who was married to the first of the murdered opera singers, had discovered love letters written between his wife and the second murdered opera singer. In a fit of jealousy tinged with humiliation and shame, the artistic director had created a plan to kill his wife and her interest. All because he was so "in love," as he had said.

Sherlock had witnessed too many crime scenes with similar stories, had seen the irrational behaviour of those who deemed they were "in love." He therefore concluded that passion was a simply absurd phenomenon, one which clouded judgment and allowed the bestiality of humanity to take the helm. But the love letters between the two opera singers…Sherlock had found himself drawn to them. They were currently hidden in his coat and oh how he was itching to discuss them with John; for, despite all the cannibalism he had witnessed in response to so-called love, these letters embodied something_…different._ Reading them had stirred sensations in Sherlock that he could not quite name and of which, naturally, he was currently feeling a decent amount of frustration. The letters…they contained something that seemed pure and happy, and Sherlock felt his stomach jolt when he thought these sensations may, in fact, be reasonable.

He ran up the stairs.

"John?"

But when he threw the door to their flat open, he stopped in his tracks.

John's possessions were gone - the chair, the medical books, the newspapers, the laptop.

Sherlock hurried up the stairs to his flatmate's bedroom. Empty. No bedsheets on the bed. No clothing in the closet. He reached into the pocket of his coat, long fingers wrapping around his cellphone.

**News for you. Come to the flat at once. SH**

There was a faint buzz from within the nightstand by the now barren bed. When Sherlock pulled open the nightstand drawer, he found John's shiny black phone triumphantly displaying the detective's message.

The detective felt the crease in-between his eyebrows rapidly growing as he rushed back downstairs, running his hands through his hair and trying to slow his frantically racing mind enough so he could think clearly. The answer was obvious, but it set Sherlock's stomach turning in on itself in a disorienting way. _Left for good…doesn't want me to be able to contact him…I didn't see this coming…unexpected…observed his growing frustration as of late…frustration caused by me…but…he will miss the danger…won't he miss the danger…could never have deduced this…this…THIS!_

Sherlock threw his phone across the room with a moan.

That's when an envelope caught his eye, one that had not been in amongst the piles of books and papers earlier that day. Sherlock scrambled overtop the coffee table to grab at it. Inside was a wad of money, a key, and a letter. He tore the letter open:

**Dear Sherlock,  
****I have left my share of two months rent to help you until you can find a new flatmate.  
****Goodbye.  
****John**

Sherlock's eyes turned to ice and his jaw clenched. He could feel his blood beginning to boil until a scream erupted from the innermost cavity of his chest and his throat scratched in agony. His mind was spiralling out of control, a cacophony of colour and noise and shock…anger…OUTRAGE! The envelope flew across the room like a rocket, crashing into a vase and sending coins and key into the air. Shaky hands found the gun hidden in the desk drawer. Trembling body held the gun towards the wall, shooting and shooting, chestnut hair dancing in fury, wallpaper writhing in pain. Bullet after bullet until the big yellow smile painted on the wall was not a smile anymore.


	4. The Lonely Hero

But another case came which required Sherlock's deductive skills…and another…and another…and soon Sherlock fell into a comfortable pattern of microscopes, test tubes, autopsies, long nights, adrenaline, running through alleyways, one meal a day or sometimes none at all, and basically living at St. Bart's Hospital…until his former flatmate was nothing but a book growing dusty on a shelf at the very recesses of his mind. So Sherlock's life went on and his mental bookshelves continued to grow and multiply. That is, until the artistic director of the opera house was murdered and Sherlock had to open the dusty book of love letters, finer passions, and lost flatmates that his mind had all but suppressed.

The new case at the opera house sent Sherlock rummaging through the garbage can in the kitchen of 221B. He hadn't cleared the garbage in ages - that had been John's job (besides, the detective knew that Mrs. Hudson would eventually clean it out anyway). It was overflowing with smelly strange things that may have once belonged to a human being, but this fact did not seem to disturb the dark-haired man. He was searching for the stolen and now discarded love letters when he came across a ripped piece of paper covered in John's rapid writing. The date scrawled on it indicated that it had been written a month before John moved away. Sherlock's eyes sparkled with curiosity. His mind told him to finish the case and return to the paper later, but the aching feeling that ignited in his chest was frustratingly overpowering. After a moment's hesitation, he decided he would quickly read John's words and then return to solving the case, cursing himself over this sign of sentimental feeling for his lost friend.

Hastily, he read:

**_To be added to my blog when Sherlock is not using my laptop ~_**

**Many of you have described Sherlock as heartless, emotionless, psychopathic, and freakish. Many of you have asked me why I not only continue to work with Sherlock, but how I can stand to be his flatmate. I do have to agree that there are various ways in which Sherlock seems more machine than human. For one, even on lack of food and sleep, his mind is more observant, aware, and energetic than 1,000 other minds combined. For another, I have never heard him speak of love except to deny that he is capable of such an emotion.**

**He has told me that the finer emotions only serve to weaken the mind, to make one think and act illogically and unreasonably and that, for these reasons, he chooses not to make the mistake of caring. Nevertheless, I can honestly say that more often than not I have seen Sherlock exhibit emotions in the most simple, raw, innocently human way possible - excitement, fear, frustration. And to hear him play a tune on the violin is to understand the depth of emotions the man is capable of feeling. When he plays, it is not enough to say that he is playing from the heart. No, it is rather as if the bow and violin ****_are_**** Sherlock's heart. And the sound that is produced. Some days I am brought to tears, other days I am filled with joy, but always I am astounded by the beauty of it all. **

**I know that many of you have asked the detective for help only to be turned down because your cases were too, as he put it, "boring" or "dull." For that, I am truly sorry. I know you have experienced a deep pain and that you want to understand fully why that pain occurred. For you, it probably seems that Sherlock is indeed emotionless. But I must also emphasize that the excitement, fear, and frustration I have witnessed in the detective bubble up in instances where he is reaching out to help the community of London and to solve the wrongs that have been done to the citizens of this city. His mind hungers to solve cases. He lives and breathes to reveal the truth. So you see, he uses his incredible brilliance for good. **

**He told me once that heroes do not exist, yet he is the greatest hero that I could ever imagine and that the city of London could ever wish for. My words will never properly express the goodness that is Sherlock Holmes. But I can say that he is truly human and heroic, and I will always be proud and honoured to say that I am a part of his life.**

Sherlock had indeed told John that heroes did not exist. And he still firmly believed this statement. For instance, John was brave and caring (a military man who defended his country and a doctor who worked to help others) and yet, there were many who would fail to see him as a hero: those he killed on the battlefield, those whose illnesses and pains he could not properly cure, and those who he let down to ensure Sherlock's safety. Sherlock's mind went back to their first case together when John had been told by so many not to trust the detective but had followed his gut instead…when John had killed a man to protect Sherlock's safety in the instinctual belief that the detective was someone to be trusted. Then Sherlock's mind turned to the case of the Blind Banker…at the museum when John left Soo Lin's side to protect the detective even though it had been Soo Lin who needed saving.

Sherlock's breath caught. Perhaps heroes _could_ exist. True, John had been a hero to one at the expense of others who were in equal need of a saviour…but he had been _Sherlock's_ warrior nonetheless.

As Sherlock moved to stand, his legs gave way underneath him and he fell back onto the floor, head pounding. He felt incredibly, undeniably sick, as if he had been force fed something far too rich. In fact, he thought he might vomit. The room was spinning, changing colours, morphing into awkward shapes before his eyes. He was keeled over on the floor now, shaking uncontrollably. He had never been in such physical pain. He literally couldn't think. Maps and diagrams and books upon books were tumbling from the shelves of his mental palace and swirling, a massive whirlwind that threatened to explode like a volcano. Street names throughout England, the periodic table, algebraic formulas, words in French, Spanish, Inuktitut, Latin, Cree, Tagalog, Mandarin, Algonquin, Cantonese, Arabic danced and twirled inside his head in mad unison, a fiery tango turning into angry riot. He screamed, a deep agonizing sound. And suddenly, the images and words exploded in an array of colour and there was simply nothingness, a black void.

The detective closed his eyes and tried to breathe, surprised to find that he was welcoming the blank sheet that had become his mind. But struggling out of the void was a voice…the voice of ever-loyal Molly Hooper, pathology lab assistant. She was speaking to him in the lab of St. Bart's Hospital. She was telling him she noticed the sadness that washed over his face whenever he thought John wasn't looking. She was asking him if he was okay, but knowing he wasn't. Annoying, sweet Molly.

His eyes stung. His nostrils flared.

Then images flashed before Sherlock's eyes. A London tramway. A young lady tied to a chair. Sarah, one of John's former love interests. And Sherlock rubbing his arms up and down her shaking form, whispering soothing words in her ear. Words that were genuine…from the heart. Words which understood the human emotions of anguish and desperation…words which just as humanly reached out to connect, to calm, to comfort. Words spoken by Sherlock himself, revealing that he was more human than machine.

And then his voice again. In the lab of St. Bart's with John. The detective was explaining that being alone was his protection, and was utterly convinced that what he was saying was the truth.

Sherlock came hurtling back into the present, his chest catching and his throat seizing up. Being alone had always protected him from distractions that would clog his mind with useless information. Being alone had always shielded him from emotional pain. Yet, by closing his heart off from any and everyone, he had lost the most wonderful person he had ever had the luck of meeting. Chance had been in his favour, and he had foolishly let it slip through his fingers, had been unable to see what was right in front of him…something that ordinary, _extraordinary_ Molly Hooper had observed underneath the detective's unreadable glass blue eyes.

Alone no longer felt like a protective shield of armour keeping him safe from toxins and contaminants. Alone now felt empty, hollow, all-encompassing, and hopelessly cold.

And then…tears. For the first time since his childhood, Sherlock Holmes was crying. At first, he was embarrassed by such a display of emotion. His shoulders trembled and his chest heaved. Then, his embarrassment turned to fear. The sensation of crying terrified him, the fact that he could feel so much at one time. He curled into a ball on the floor, rocking himself back and forth.

Various words were tumbling through Sherlock's mind at whirlwind speed._ John. John Watson. My doctor. My flatmate. My friend. My warrior. Affection. Loyalty. John. John. John. _

Suddenly, a knock on the door. Sherlock felt mildly annoyed at being so rudely disrupted from his grieving.

"Mrs. Hudson! Door!" he roared loud enough for the entire street to hear. No reply.

Another knock.

"MRS. HUDSON?!" Still no reply.

Yet another knock. Preposterous.

Sherlock picked himself up off the floor, and peered through the eyehole at the top of the door. It was dark but through the shadows he could make out the outline of the unknown guest. They had their back turned to the door but Sherlock could see that they were not too tall, about five foot five, with a very upright stance as of someone from a military background. Sherlock let out a gasp, hands suddenly sweaty and shaky as he reached to open the door. Another unfamiliar sensation careened through his body - that of butterflies dancing in his stomach. _John_.


	5. You Make My Pulse Elevate

John looked quite dejected, large circles under his eyes, his shoulders stooped, hands trembling. Sherlock's eyes flashed over his friend in a matter of seconds. _Hasn't been sleeping properly…feels unfulfilled…unaccomplished…not enough adventure…not enough danger…misses the danger…I knew he would…_

John watched the detective uncomfortably before he began to speak. "Sherlock - I know you are probably busy and I won't keep you long. I just wanted to say that I've done some reflecting this past little while and…you're right. Of course you're right, you always are. But anyway, you are right about me. I am an idiot. There is something I have to tell you…that I should have told you a long time ago, but I didn't realize it myself until recently. But you probably already know what it is because you always know - and I understand how you are about sentiment, Sherlock, but damn you and sentiment because I need to say it anyway - "

And that's when Sherlock noticed it…yes, the doctor's eyes were hidden behind dark circles and a veil of sadness, but his pupils were undeniably dilated. Suddenly the detective was showered with a wave of adrenaline akin to the stimulation of a good case.

"John - " Sherlock found himself interrupting the doctor, his tone hard and persistent, and yet so gentle at the same time. He placed two fingers on John's lips. The gesture was affectionate and John fell silent, glancing up at the detective with a look of shock and utter surprise.

Sherlock's usually confident voice trembled as he continued. "I'm…I'm not always right. You once said that I was ignorant. Your observations were…they were…correct. I _have_ been…I've been…ignorant." Finding the right words was too difficult and being wrong was humiliating, but he had to continue…for John. "I pride myself in my ability to accurately and thoroughly observe those around me, but…I have failed to observe myself - " Sherlock paused, feeling a light sweat ignite on his skin, his heart flutter. So many new sensations that his mind was blueprinting and cataloging so he would always remember. "What I mean to say John is…um…"

Before Sherlock could continue, John was through the door and pulling the taller man into a tight embrace. For a second, the doctor wondered how Sherlock would react to having such an open display of sentiment directed towards him. However, John was overjoyed when he felt the detective's body relax as if it was the most natural, relieving, welcome gesture in the entire world.

"What I mean to say is…" Sherlock sighed into John's ear. "…you make my pulse elevate."

At that, John laughed whole-heartedly. "You make my pulse elevate too, you giant git."

"Please come home."

John pulled Sherlock closer before saying in a tone filled with fondness, "Mmm…of course. Bloody hell, I can't believe how alone I feel without you and your experiments and drugged teas and violin playing and insults and your God awful annoying ways."

Then Sherlock gasped and pulled back slightly, realizing that he had completely forgotten about the slain artistic director. He'd _never_ forgotten about a case before. Affection really was a silly thing…but perhaps it was a good silly thing…after all, he felt affection for John and John and him had connected over the adventure, danger, and absolute thrill of solving cases…so perhaps work and affection _could_ exist together…perhaps this affection would even help Sherlock's mind _excel_. The detective's eyes sparkled in excitement. "I was just solving a particularly gruesome case. Care to join? The artistic director of the opera house has gone and gotten himself decapitated."

"Oh hell yes," John said.

"Good. I would be lost without my…my…" Sherlock took a deep breath but when he saw the care on the doctor's face, the words spilled out of his mouth, "my John."

Then Sherlock rushed John into the kitchen. His face lit in a grin and words breathlessly poured out of him as he told his doctor about the case. John stood there and beamed while his detective danced and jumped and twirled in the exhilaration of explaining the murder. And their smiles turned into bellowing laughter that filled the room with tickling warmth, bounced off the walls, wound through Baker Street, and tangoed back up the stairs of 221B.

THE END


	6. Epilogue

_**Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this piece. You have been truly and completely wonderful. :)**_

_**Here is the final bit, the epilogue, for this particular fanfic. Thank you to doylies for the prompt (which was "Sherlock is wearing nothing but a sheet").**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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EPILOGUE

The days became weeks became months and the hugs turned to kisses turned to shared beds until it had been one year. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had officially been together as lovers for one fantastic, magnificent, exhausting, tiring, exhilarating year.

The doctor was unsure if Sherlock would remember their anniversary. The great git probably felt he had no room in his mental palace, would likely argue that they were together and they were happy so why fawn over something as trivial as a date. But no matter. That thought had not stopped John from making dinner reservations at Angelo's and purchasing a simple but special present.

In fact, at the moment, John was ascending the stairs to the flat with said simple but special present in hand. There was no point in wrapping the gift; Sherlock would roll his eyes at such an act of sentiment, and mutter something about how idiotic society was to so frivolously waste money on pointless trinkets like tissue paper and bows which were just going to be thrown out as soon as the gift was opened anyway. Thus, the present was currently in nothing more than a shopping bag, to be simply handed to Sherlock when the time came.

It was a dark blue Hugo Boss scarf. To replace Sherlock's current one which was so old and worn that it was fraying horribly at the ends. Even though Sherlock would never ever dare admit it, John knew that the genius had become quite attached to the item. John had seen the way that the detective's eyes turned glassy every time another of the scarf's threads unravelled, how he folded it carefully and meticulously each time he unwrapped it from around his neck.

John smiled to himself as he thought of the delicate, pale skin of the detective's nape. By now, he was at the door and was turning the doorknob. But as the door creaked open, there was a frantic, breathless, "Don't come in!"

It was too late. The doctor was in the doorframe, mouth dropping as he took in the scene before him.

The first thing John witnessed was the horrified expression on Sherlock's face: eyes large, mouth tight, skin blanched. The second thing John saw was that Sherlock was sprawled on his stomach across the floor, completely stark naked save for a knot of bed sheet tangled around his ankles and wrists. The third thing John noticed was two very plump, very firm, and very pale arse cheeks (which he had grown incredibly fond of seeing on a regular basis these last few months). The fourth thing John observed was that the detective was covered in food: fingers, cheekbones, dark curls, nose, eyelashes and, yes, even that gorgeous arse had been assaulted by raw egg and syrup. And the final thing that John detected was the distinct smell of charred food.

"What is going on?" John asked, his tone betraying his amusement.

Sherlock huffed, face now pressed firmly into the ground, and muttered something unintelligible.

"Come again?" John's eyebrows raised a fraction and he folded his arms.

Sherlock looked at the doctor with pouty lips before spitting out a flurry of words. "I was trying to make treacle tart but I couldn't find my robe or cotton trousers and I didn't want to wear my good clothes because I would make them messy so I decided to wear my bed sheet and I failed miserably at my first attempt, I burned it, so I was going to ask Mrs. Hudson for a hand but then my sheet caught on the grate of the fireplace and I fell and - "

John's eyebrows raised another fraction. "You were trying to make treacle tart?"

"Yes, I just said that," Sherlock replied, irritated that he had to repeat himself.

"What for?"

The detective rolled his eyes as if the answer was perfectly clear. "Honestly, John. For our anniversary. Obviously. I remember you saying you were fond of it."

Now John's eyebrows were practically popping right off his forehead. "You remembered...that I like treacle tart...our anniversary...bloody brilliant..."

"Yes. I remember everything of importance. You should know that by now." Sherlock scrunched his nose in annoyance at having to yet again explain something that he thought was completely and utterly evident.

A wide smile spread across the doctor's face then and, in a matter of seconds, he had unhooked the sheet from the grate, untangled long limbs and legs from fabric, gently draped the sheet around pale shoulders, and pulled that mysterious, exquisite, beautiful face into a kiss.

"May I see my present?" Sherlock asked as they pulled apart.

John groaned. "How did you know?" he questioned, though he realized that he shouldn't be surprised. It was virtually impossible to hide anything from those sparkling, observant eyes.

Sherlock smirked. "The bag. It's from a fancy department store. Sells expensive clothes. You never spend that kind of money on yourself."

John chuckled. "Guilty as charged." And he handed the bag to the dark-haired man before saying in a slightly regretful tone, "I just wish I could surprise you once in awhile."

But when John looked back at Sherlock, he realized that, for once, the detective was genuinely shocked. The dark-haired man had pulled his gift out of the bag and was now staring at the scarf with wondrous eyes, his fingers running gently over the blue fabric. "This scarf...it is exactly the same as my other one," and his blue-green eyes fluttered over to the closet where the wizened scarf was folded.

The doctor grinned, pleased that he had successfully managed to astound the detective. "Yes. Yes, it is."

Sherlock looked both confused and excited. "How? This model has been out of print for years."

John's grin widened. "Special ordered it."

Sherlock uttered a breathless "Thank you," before wrapping the new scarf around his neck, a faint smile on his lips.

"Are we feeling sentimental over a piece of fabric?" John asked playfully, mimicking Sherlock's most condescending tone.

Sherlock shot him an irate look and curtly said, "No, of course not, don't be silly. I only wear it to keep my neck warm," before unwrapping the scarf and shoving it back into the shopping bag. But then, after a moment's silence, the detective's bottom lip quivered slightly and he mumbled under his breath, "I wish my surprise for you had been successful."

John took Sherlock's hands in his and squeezed gently, comfortingly. "Why don't we make the treacle tart together?"

At these words, Sherlock's blue-green eyes began to twinkle and his face was overcome with excitement. "Together? Yes, together is better."

And then John was crushing their lips together again and whispering breathlessly between kisses, "That's right, Sherlock...Just the two of us against the rest of the world...remember?...Together always and forever."


End file.
